


And the Band Played On

by cakeisatruth



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Synthesis Ending, The Reaper War, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisatruth/pseuds/cakeisatruth
Summary: What if the Pathfinder team had never gone to Andromeda? Vignettes focusing on what might have become of each of theTempestcrew had they stayed in the Milky Way and lived through the Reaper War.





	1. Kallo

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains spoilers for Mass Effect 3 throughout. It's spoiler-free for Andromeda _with the exception of the last chapter._

He checked the blueprints for the last time yesterday, and now that he’s watching them being folded up, he wants to lecture the Initiative team about being careful. If they’re this heedless with the prints, how could they ever handle the real _Tempest_?

Next to him, Teon’Adda sighs. “Poured our blood, sweat, and tears into that baby, and now we’ll never see her again.”

“They won’t know her the way we did,” Kallo says.

Higher-ups said it would be a good thing - no one too attached to the ship for sentimental purposes, no one fussing over whether it would be right to change something once they were in Andromeda. Among the engineering team, they’d privately agreed on one thing: working alongside a new team, without the coworkers they’d grown close to, would be too difficult. And still, it doesn’t feel right to be waving goodbye.

“I’ll miss the test flights,” he hears himself add.

Teon nods. “I wish we could have seen her potential.

There’s an enthusiastic shout behind them; O’Connell’s leaning in to view something funny on Diawara’s omni. Kallo knows them well enough not to believe they’re indifferent to what’s happening. Sometimes, the best way of dealing with a hard goodbye is not to say it out loud.

Sorenna glances at him, then rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll miss her, too,” she says.

“She’s off to bigger and better things than we could ever dream of,” Kallo answers firmly.

Sorenna nods, and he can _see_ her trying not to look over her shoulder as the _Tempest_ is taken away. “And more hardships than we could prepare for.” She sighs. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

Kallo shakes his head, very slightly. He wouldn’t have voiced it himself, but he’s thought the same thing. It’s something to remind himself of, every time he feels guilty about not signing up to take the leap six hundred years into the future.

Who knows what could happen there?


	2. Peebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: emotionally abusive relationship.

“The, uh, rumors are saying we might wanna hop a shuttle and get out of here soon.” She’s been hanging upside down off the couch so long, trying to work up the nerve to say it, that her voice is strained and her face hot. The datapad screens in front of her - one in each hand - have long since gone blurry.

Kalinda waves a hand dismissively, eyes still locked on her omni. “They’ve been saying that for years.”

 _Which could mean it’s more convincing, or less._ Peebee’s not sure, but analysis has never been her thing. “They’re louder this time. D’you think any of it could be true?”

A gloved hand touches her thigh, rubbing back and forth soothingly. “Babe, listen to me. The news publishes that because it’s what sells. Nothing’s going to happen.” She speaks in the smooth, oily voice of someone trying to calm a toddler. “It’s a cycle. Tensions get higher, and then they blow over - the same way they will now.”

Peebee sticks out her bottom lip. “Who’re you texting?”

“Sharing my flight itinerary for tomorrow.” Kalinda leans back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How many centuries left until retirement?”

“You’ll find a way to get out of the trips before then. Even if you - ”

She’s mostly sat up when Kalinda squirms away and cuts her off. “Ah-ah-ah, stop that! You _know_ I don’t like it when you try and read over my shoulder.”

“I wanted to give you a hug,” Peebee mutters to the floor.

“Sure.”

“What? I _did_.”

“I know.” She shuts the display with a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Business trips make me into an asshole.”

Peebee snuggles into her side, accepted readily this time. “You said it’d be four days, right? That’s not so bad.”

“Five at least. Might get extended to seven.”

“Damn it.”

“I wouldn’t mind if they weren’t _so_ dull.” Kalinda’s fingers play along the collar of her girlfriend’s purple jacket. “You’ll live a little extra for me, won’t you? Give me some good stories to come home to?”

Peebee grins. “Since when do you wait until you get home?”

“I get impatient,” Kalinda protests, pouting in the way that won her the argument when she first insisted she should have remote access to Peebee’s omni. “Anyone would, without someone like you telling them about adventures every night.”

“Best part of my day.” Peebee nuzzles into her neck. “You’ll get stories. Promise.”

A set of lips nuzzles at her temple. “What would I do without you? My little rogue,” Kalinda murmurs, and Peebee thinks - as she has many times before - that it’s just what _I love you_ should sound like.

* * *

_You have [1] new message._

_[MSG from: Kalinda <3 ] You didn’t tell me you were ordering a taxi. _

_[MSG SENT] sorry. being spontaneous_

_[MSG SENT] are you mad?_

_[MSG from: Kalinda <3 ] Where are you going? _

_[MSG SENT] idk yet still enroute_

_[MSG SENT] put in my budget & said surprise me _

_[MSG from: Kalinda <3 ] Have fun! Send pictures! :) _


	3. Liam

He’s seen cities burn before, in the vids. Thing is, in the vids, they’re always focused on the hero, not the rest of the trapped people. They’re just extras. And the hero, yeah, there’s always got to be a hero, and that person shows up at exactly the right time. He thinks that should’ve been before they started loading people into shuttles.

“Liam, baby - ”

His mother tries to pull him back from the shuttle’s window. He feels her fingers tucked between his neck and the back of his shirt collar, like he’s little again and she wants to pull him into her chest, covering his eyes with one hand. Doesn’t matter. It’ll still be happening, whether or not he sees it, so he’s got to see.

_There’s gotta be a hero._

When the horns go off everyone ducks, like noise alone could kill (which it feels like it might, with all his teeth rattling this way). The guy in the corner who’s hugging his boyfriend leans in too fast and their skulls crack against each other, and Liam remembers, yeah, the shuttle’s too full. Remembers he pulled four extra people in before the worker yelled they had to take off, and there were still more left behind. They’ll never evacuate enough people in these tiny things.

They’re trying anyway. Soldiers on the ground yank civilians into shuttles. Daft, that he’s up here. What a bloody waste to huddle in fear instead of doing some good. Through the window, he watches a ship take off. A woman on the ground drags a man along after her; he trips and splats hard enough that it’s gotta hurt, but before he can react, one of the soldiers grabs him by the armpits and tosses him into another shuttle.

“Liam,” his mother begs, tugging harder now.

He tries not to think about it, but a couple shuttles fell already, when the beams came for them. How many people did that take, really? In here there’s a dozen, maybe fifteen. Two times fifteen, so maybe thirty people. What did those thirty lives look like? Could this have been stopped?

When she pulls at his collar again, this time he goes because his eyes are starting to burn. Not seeing the carnage outside doesn’t mean they’re any safer, so maybe it’s a coward’s way out. He’s got to think, though. If he makes it out of here, he’s gotta find a way to make things better.

If there _is_ a way.

That’s the thing, the part he’s not sure how to face. He shouldn’t be on this shuttle because it’d mean he could be on the ground helping, pulling people into other shuttles. But the ones in the air are just as bad off as the ones on the ground.  At least up here, they can get information on where those things will hit next, but what do they need to know? How does he figure out what they need to know?

God, if he gets out of here he’ll find a way to fix it. He can’t just sit by. Not anymore.

At his side, he can hear his mother’s breathing going staccato, little terrified gasps of air. He pulls her close, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, like she did for him twenty-some years ago, back when things made sense.


	4. Scott

In the middle of the walkway that connects their shuttle and the docking bay, Private Dabere mutters, “Your jacket is crooked.”

Scott glances down at his front, tugging the material free where it was trapped under one strap of his gear. Most people are allowed to look a little rumpled after jumping a couple of mass relays, but not the Alliance. He tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes before they step back into public scrutiny.

“Hour and a half before the next one boards.” He switches his omni back on to check the time, ignoring the notifications that pop up. It’s nothing crucial, after all. “You want to grab a coffee?”

“Sure.” She reaches up to retie her ponytail as they fall into step. The last time Scott caught a flight through here, it was so noisy he could barely hear himself think. It must be twice as packed now, but people’s voices are down low, the sound of shoes on worn tile louder than anything else in the building.

Nine hours to get here, and it’ll be another four on the next shuttle before they touch down in London. Neither of them can stomach the idea of sitting down now that there’s finally room to stretch their legs. Drinks in hand, they end up wandering towards the display systems, scanning the screens to find their connecting flight.

Scott points to one of the boards when he locates it. “Ten minutes delayed. Not too bad.”

Dabere makes a noise of acknowledgement, sweeping her gaze over her traveling partner’s tense posture. “Are you nervous?”

“Caffeine makes me jittery.” Even as he says it, he takes another mouthful of coffee.

The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Sure it does.”

Easy for her to poke fun. She’s been on the front lines since she enlisted. Meanwhile, he’s been babysitting a dead mass relay, which does fuck-all to prepare someone for really going to war.

He’s starting to wish he’d asked for a little advice when he called home to tell them about his new orders. But then (his jaw tightens a little at the memory), Dad barely looked at him during that call. First Contact veteran or not, he’s gotten even more terse since his AI project failed months ago. He probably said less than a dozen words over the phone that day, no emotion in it apart from an offhand mention about, “Your mother would be proud.”

Dabere’s omni buzzes, and she glances at it. “That must be the Major. I’ll tell him about…”

“Yeah.” Scott looks back up at the display: their shuttle’s already been delayed another five minutes. “I’m gonna take a walk.” He turns off in search of a hallway to pace, stiff-legged, and willing himself to shut out the world for the next few hours or so.


	5. Vetra

The suitcase on Sid’s lap represents weeks of work. It still feels kind of surreal to think that at least one of them will be a member of turian society again. It always seemed so far away to Vetra that one day her sister would turn fifteen, right up until a month or two ago. Moment of truth, in a way.

“Hey. Hey, Vetra. Will the war be over when I’m done with boot camp, do you think? I read somewhere they usually take a long time to finish. I’ll probably get to fight, won’t I?”

_ And it’s not even a full year of training now. _ They’ve cut three months off the timeline since Palaven was attacked, and the idea of Sid being rushed through learning the basics just to be another warm body out in the field makes Vetra want to shudder.

“I’m not sure,” is the only thing she can think to say.

The train shudders to a halt. Both sisters eye the display, checking the number of stops left.

Sid shifts forward in her chair. “Just so you know, I’m gonna make you really proud of me.”

“You know I already am, right?” But she can tell from the way Sid looks at her that an eyeroll is sure to be her response, so before that can happen, Vetra continues. “Promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”

Sid sighs. “I want to prove myself. That’s not reckless.”

“It is if you try to prove yourself by running into a dangerous situation.”

Just as she expected, this earns her a little grumble. Vetra glances at the display again. Three more stops, and Sid will walk out those doors. No matter how long you have to prepare, some things don’t seem to sink in the way they should. The idea of her kid sister, the one she taught to read, heading into a reality Vetra never faced herself? That definitely counts, much as she doesn’t want to admit it.

“You gonna write to me?” she asks, needing to fill the silence.

Sid nods. “If you write back.”

“Every week, if it’s up to me.” Vetra grips a bar to steady herself as the train makes another stop. “Might have to go silent sometimes, with…everything happening. I’ll do my best, so try not to worry.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sid’s words are more confident than her tone. “I’m not some kid anymore, you know.”

“You are for two more stops,” Vetra says firmly. “And Sid?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday.”


	6. Gil

“And it’ll run for long enough to get us out of here?”

Gil nods, glancing at his tools on the bench beside the shuttle. (Real estate on the Citadel is expensive, even in an out-of-the-way corner like this. Once he parked the cars, there wasn’t much room left for anything else.) “I can’t promise miracles, but it should last long enough to make that trip.”

The family pays in credits, and that’s a relief. Last week he had a girl ask if he’d take ration cards as payment. Accepting felt terrible. It didn’t help she looked a fair bit like Jill, too, though her face is starting to fade from his memory. Feels like decades since those arks bound for Andromeda took off; it’s only been a few months, but war’s got a way of warping time. He wonders what year they’ll hear about the Reaper War.

From behind him, there’s a voice. “Hey, uh, how much is a ride?”

He recognizes the speaker when he turns around. She’s one of a pair of street performers he sees on the Presidium now and then, putting on a show while her partner scurries through the crowd with an upturned hat, hoping passerbys will drop in a few credits. “That depends where you want to go, and how comfortable a car you’re looking for.”

A muscle works in her jaw. “Attican Traverse.”

He waits, just a few beats, and prompts her when the rest of it doesn’t come: “It’s a big place.”

“Ontarom. I want to leave before tomorrow.” Her shoulders hunch, gaze going to her own hands. “My fiance’s emails stopped weeks ago. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Gil’s heard more than a few sob stories from people trying to get free rides, and he’s pretty sure this isn’t one. No one in their right mind would flee to a planet that was close to falling apart even before the war. He taps in a few numbers on his datapad and turns the screen towards her, indicating a set of prices. “Here’s the deposit. You take the car there, then put it in self-driving mode and send it back. Once I get it, you get back everything but the cab fee.”

She mouths a curse his translator doesn’t catch. “I was hoping it’d be…”

He keeps himself from reacting. Damn the war, damn dangling the things people need just out of their reach. Damn the lack of humanity.

The woman looks down again, and he realizes her gaze has settled on the ring on her left hand. She raises her head, her mouth set in a straight line. “Keep my estimate,” she says. “I’ll be back later.”

Gil nods, and she hurries off. He pretends he doesn’t know about the pawn shop upstairs, pretends he’s completely focused on the repair he’s got to do to one of the other cars. He grips a wrench with one hand, and sighs.

Sometimes, it’s hard not to wish he were a popsicle in stasis right now.


	7. Sara

Before the war started, she used to think of Fire Watch as another way the Alliance tormented low-ranking servicemen. It’s less annoying these days, knowing a few guards could be the reason they don’t all get eaten by Reapers - _like that’s easy to forget_.

She glances at the window, does an about-face, and starts to pace back towards the opposite wall when a door switch clicks. Two people stick their heads in, one looking tired, the other all business.

“Ryder, switch with McGlynn. She’ll handle the rest of your shift.” Viranthi, their Operations Chief, starts barking orders even before the door is fully open. “You’ve got salvage to do.”

He disappears back into the storage room, leaving Sara and McGlynn to exchange weary looks. With a sigh, Sara makes her way over to the door.

“Good luck, corporal,” she mutters.

“You too.” McGlynn glances back over her shoulder, then lowers her voice. “I heard them talking earlier. Rumor’s the unit might get activated next week.”

Sara wrinkles her nose. “They’ve been saying that for the last three months.”

McGlynn shrugs. “You never know.”

With a noncommittal sound, Sara shuts the door behind her. This storage room is the size of a postage stamp, and her knees protest against the ridiculously hard floor as she stoops to open the closest of the shipping crates. Four or five of them today - about average. She’s become accustomed to this busywork over time. Unpack the crate, find out which divisions need whatever’s inside, set up the new shipments so everyone’s supplied.

The swarm of dust that rises when she unhinges the crate nearly chokes her, sending her into a coughing fit as her eyes water. “Jesus,” she mutters almost reflexively, once she can speak again.

Viranthi shoots her a look. “Got a straw, Ryder?”

“No, sir,” she manages, knowing what’s going to follow.

“You better find one and suck it up.”

Sara turns away from the crate so she can breathe a little easier. “Yes, sir.” How he ever became XO is beyond her. Man, she misses the dig site. She’s gone from that to a glorified shipping center - or at least that’s how it feels some days. Is she still being kept from doing useful work because of some grudge against Dad? Some days, she almost wishes they _would_ be activated, just to stop the endless what-if game. But then -

She grimaces and thinks, fleetingly, of her brother. Then she opens her eyes and digs into the filthy salvage crate.


	8. Suvi

Cecilia’s always known her next-youngest sister likes to stay up late - after all, they’re usually the last apartment on the block to turn off their lights - but this just seems excessive. She’s prepared with a remark that’s more complaint than tease, though the words die on her lips as she shuffles over to investigate. Suvi’s slumped over asleep on her desk, skin bathed in flickering blue light. It takes a few good shakes before she rouses.

“That can’t be comfortable.”

“I’ve had better,” Suvi admits with a glance at the clock. Faint patterns line her face where it was pressed against her sleeves, made all the more obvious when she grimaces in slow motion.

Cecilia offers her a hand up; a beat or two later, Suvi accepts. “Left my sheets in the dryer,” she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can I sleep in your room for the night?”

“Sure, if you want.” If Suvi’s admitting she needs to go to bed, the battle’s been won, and to hell with the laundry. It can be dealt with in the morning.

Before they’ve made it five steps, Suvi stops, reaching back for the computer. “Wait,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “I just realized how to fix the…something.”

 _This kid_. ’Course, Dad always said that was the curse of having a brilliant mind - you couldn’t shut it off. “You can do it tomorrow, little bug. It’s late.”

“I’ll forget if I don’t write it down.” She’s already rummaging in her desk drawers, looking for a datapad. “At least let me make a note.”

“Mm. ‘Make a note,’ she says. Then you’ll find something that might solve it, and you’ll have to fix it right now, and there’ll be something else, and then - ”

“Oh, stop,” Suvi half-whines, but she’s grinning. The second she’s done scribbling out a note with one finger, Cecilia nudges her towards the bedroom, and this time she goes. Halfway there, the pyjak skids by, nearly tripping them both. Cecilia clicks her tongue, shaking her head disapprovingly as she flops back into bed.

“Must’ve been something really interesting, keeping you up this late.” Even to her own ears, the joke falls flat.

Suvi’s tongue pokes out of her mouth in concentration as she wrestles clips out of her hopelessly tangled hair. “Shipments of food keep getting lost between one relay and the next. Reaper interference. I’m running the numbers to see where they might have ended up.”

It isn’t that Cecilia doesn’t know how to respond to that. She only goes quiet because it’s so late and they’re both exhausted. Really.

Suvi deposits the hair clips on her sister’s side table, but doesn’t bother with pajamas, only shedding her bra before curling up under the sheets. She puts a little space between them at first - space she willingly abandons when Cecilia puts an arm around her to tug her closer.

“I love you,” Suvi murmurs sleepily, curling in tight.

“Love you too, little bug.”


	9. Cora

She’s sprawled on her bunk, paging through Sarissa’s _A Rock in the Maelstrom_ for the umpteenth time, when there’s a voice from the doorway. “You hungry?”

Even before Cora looks up, she answers, “Wouldn’t turn it down.” Biotics rarely do.

Janae flops down next to her on the mattress, dividing a MRE into two servings. “Thank Tethys. Her nervous stomach, anyway.”

“Can’t blame her.” They won’t be landing for a few more hours, but Cora nods in the direction of the window, as if the planet was already outside. “That’s not just the homeworld to her - it’s where she was born and raised.”

“Speaking of the homeworld.” Janae leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I asked Nisira if it was true, about the Broker sending us here. And she said _yes_ \- can you believe that?”

Cora sits up straighter. “He must have seen what the unit’s done.” She’s gotten compliments in her career, sure, but the Shadow Broker must have access to every commando team out there. That he’d personally send Taelin’s Daughters to protect Thessia - it’ll take an act of God to top that one.

A nod from Janae. “Nisira said the same thing.” She nudges her food around the plate. “The Broker’s not in the habit of sending people out there to lose.”

 _We’re not just cannon fodder, you mean_ , Cora thinks wryly, but she knows better than to voice that.

“You’re worrying,” she says instead.

Janae snorts. “And you’re not?”

“If Nisira says we’ll be fine, then we’ll be fine.”

Janae wrinkles her nose. “Since when are you about blind faith? You don’t have to put up a front here, you know that.”

“Okay,” Cora admits with a sigh, “maybe not _just because_ she said so. But…”

She shrugs limply, trying not to react when Janae holds eye contact a little too long. After a moment, her teammate sighs and pushes away the plate, its contents having gone soggy.

“Think I’ll hit the combat sim,” Janae says lightly. “You want to come?”

Cora stands up to follow her. “You bet.”


	10. Lexi

Running out of bandages again. It’s some kind of cruel irony the Citadel has such a small hospital, but is expected to do more than most in this war - both in volume, and diversity of care. Getting this task done herself will be faster than calling a nurse.

Lexi means to mind her own business, really, but the kitchen is wide open and right next door. It’s hard _not_ to overhear the people talking inside.

“…taking only emergency cases?” That’s one of the human nurses, a young man barely out of university, the one who looks like a deer in headlights and only ever manages to grow patchy bits of beard. What’s his name again? It’s not like she doesn’t know her colleagues. She’s scattered, that’s all. Temporary distractions.

“We’re already _doing_ that,” snaps the head surgeon - Dr. Taylor or Dr. Saylor, she’s always forgetting which name it is. “Every goddamn patient is an emergency case. That’s why it takes days to free up a bed.”

Lexi slices the bandages into thinner strips. Rationing is more of a necessity than she’d like to think about.

“There has to be something we can do,” insists Nurse Deer-in-Headlights. “Like only taking in the worst of the worst. The ones who really need us.”

Dr. Taylor-Saylor groans in exasperation. “You know that’s how we wind up with a high fatality rate, right? It’d be smarter to only treat the ones who aren’t critical. The ones who have a chance of getting back out there and fighting again, or - or doing _something_! Not wasting resources on people who are going to kick the bucket anyway.”

Lexi turns to the charts, recalculating how much disinfectant she needs to add.

“Where do we draw the line, then?” asks the nurse rhetorically. “Outpatient surgeries? Less than two days’ stay? One day? How many people will we leave out there to die?”

“They’ll _all_ die if we don’t do a better job of prioritizing.”

 _Above all_ , Lexi whispers to herself, _do no harm_. It’s an oath the human doctors swear by - she’s heard it enough times. In the face of this war, none of them can even uphold that anymore. Now it’s more like, _Above all, do as little harm as possible. And sometimes guess at how much harm you have to do_.

A pager beeps sharply, and Dr. Taylor-Saylor mutters, “Shit.” She hears the sound of footsteps, starting at a quick walk and breaking into a run.

Nurse Deer-in-Headlights taps her on the shoulder. “Dr. T’Perro? Are you okay?”

“I…” Lexi looks down, realizing she’s twisted the bandages in her hands to the point they’re fraying.

“Are these - ?” the nurse begins.

“They’re for the patient in room sixteen.” She turns to meet his eyes, and wonders why she’s the one doing this. He’s a nurse - he deals with dressing changes more often than she does. “Prepare and change his bandages as soon as you can. I need some air.”

“Doctor?” he calls.

She’s already halfway out the door.


	11. Drack

Kesh called last month about the eggs. Said she was going to hatch them the day after the war ended.

That means she’s gonna hatch ‘em tomorrow. He has to believe that, and just hopes he’ll be around to see it. If he’s not, he’ll have given his life knowing it’s keeping his great-grandkids from having to lay down any of theirs against this monster.

Clans never used to mingle like this. Used to be, everyone stayed separate, not much reason to get together. But now it’s different. The leader of Clan Urdnot’s up there, rallying the crowd. Saying things to instill a fighting spirit. Drack likes that it’s working. He can feel the energy around him getting thick, everyone ready to help. Feels good, being a part of something like this.

Drack sees a figure in armor approach the Urdnot leader where he stands on top of a building. Human or asari - they look close enough to each other, but it’s probably human. There was a rumor going around the other year, about a clan working with the group from the Alliance that’s working to fire the Crucible now. He wouldn’t be surprised if one thing has to do with the other.

Whoever it is, they’re gonna need someone - a _lot_ of someones - to watch their back. That’s where Nakmor, and Urdnot, and all the rest come in. Wrex is right; the krogan have what it takes to help end this war once and for all.

He’s an old man, and he’s had a good life. He won’t hold back tonight for anything. But if he beats the odds and wakes up tomorrow, he’s going to Kesh’s side as she puts all five of those eggs into the incubator. Maybe he’ll even help her pick out some names.


	12. Alec

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "Ryder Family Secrets" in this chapter.

**ETA: 57 seconds.**

As the hum and glow of machinery whispers under his skin, he wonders if his AI project would have been so different from their new reality. If it _will be_ so different, he should say - SAM fully intends to wake up alongside every Pathfinder six hundred years from now. Without his creator.

_(2183, his office, a laptop screen with the voice and flickering image of the Benefactor._

_“Alec, it’s a sale, not an employment contract. We don’t have anything like SAM, but we already have a human Pathfinder secured. Your joining us on the Initiative isn’t needed.” They didn’t add, “…or wanted.” He could hear it anyway._

_The end payment: one stasis pod, and enough money that if they invested carefully, his children would be secure for the rest of their lives. That, or it’d pay for the therapy bills.)_

**ETA: 12 seconds.**

Someone’s sneakers thump on the stairs up to the porch, and then - right on time - there’s Sara’s keys in the lock. Scott flings the door open, laughing at some dumb joke.

Alec tries to blink away the displays in front of his eyes, because right now he doesn’t really need to know his kids’ blood pressure, breathing, and heart rate. (And he _really_ doesn’t need the cybernetic parts to tell him his own pulse is climbing.) It doesn’t work, because it’s all integrated now, gifts-slash-curses of the new minds and bodies nobody understands.

Their prize for surviving the Reaper War.

_(2185, living room, his son home on leave. Scott sat eating cold pizza in his pajamas, eyes glued to the news._

_“Arks for the Initiative launched today,” he muttered to Alec’s questioning look._

_“Yeah.” The TV headline said as much. “You and Sara talked about that, didn’t you?”_

_He grunted._

_“Do you wish you’d gone?”_

_Scott wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s the point? We’d just have been running away.”_

_You wouldn’t have to live through the war that’s about to hit, Alec didn’t answer.)_

There’s no hint of awkwardness as they make themselves at home, just like they should. Scott’s still careful with what used to be his bad arm. Six months ago, he was lucky it didn’t have to be amputated. As of last week, it’s like nothing ever happened. Old habits are hard to break, though - Alec knows that as well as anyone.

Sara calls out, not knowing where he is: “Dad?” **Volume: 83 decibels.**

“I’ll be right there.” **Volume: 70 decibels.**

_(2181, three months since his discharge, daughter looking at her shoes, fists clenched._

_“They said no?”_

_She nodded._

_“Why would they say no? You’re more than qualified, definitely more qualified than that jackass they took instead.”_

_A sigh. “Dad, it’s not important - ”_

_“Why didn’t you get the position, Sara?”_

_She hooked her thumbs through her belt loops and shrugged. “’Cause they found out I was your daughter.”)_

The nurses keep sending him updates, and every single one says Ellen is doing well. AEND can’t thrive in a brain that’s half cybernetic.

In eleven days, four hours, and ten or so minutes, she’ll begin to wake from the coma - whole again. This is the optimal time to tell the kids.

_(2183, pens and paper and legal documents. The Benefactor’s ever-changing image smiled at him from the screen._

_“She’s, uh…five foot seven.” He glanced away, furrowing his brow. “Pretty underweight. The disease - it causes wasting.”_

_The Benefactor nodded. “So she’ll fit in a standard-issue stasis pod.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You’ll need to revise your will, effective immediately, in case she isn’t cured within your lifetime.”_ )

When he looks through the doorway, Sara’s curled into her brother’s side, his hand on her shoulder. They don’t look all that different from the night after the funeral two years ago, if Alec’s honest. Not that it matters now.

He’ll tell them in twenty-six words. He’s already got every one of them prepared.

Alec stands from his chair, and the twins look up.

“Kids,” he says, “I’ve got something to tell you.”


End file.
